“Poor beast!” exclaimed Tom compassionately. “I’m mighty glad I decided to come along.” He straightened up. “Cowboys never drive cattle so hard as to make ’em fall over in a heap—no, sir, not by a long shot.”
Tying his horse to a near-by sapling he returned to the steer to make a more careful examination.
He found there were no outward evidences of injuries, though everything showed that the animal was in a complete state of exhaustion—so complete that it had ceased all efforts to move, and but for its gently heaving sides and half-closed eyes would have appeared quite lifeless indeed.
Another idea came to Tom. There was scarcely any trace of the rain of the day before, but here and there he thought the earth might still be sufficiently soft to show tracks of passing cattle.
Not very long afterward he whistled softly; his eyes sparkling with a peculiar light were turned in the direction of the rolling hills in the west, over which the rising sun was casting a soft, mellow glow.
At his feet lay a little marshy tract; in various portions limpid pools reflected the sky above. Here was the evidence he had been so earnestly searching for. Imprints, and fresh imprints, too, of many hoofs.
“Yes, sir; it looks to me as though a whopping big bunch has passed this way,” he exclaimed. “By George—if it should be—I wonder——”
Frowning lines immediately appeared on Tom Clifton’s forehead; his detective instincts were once more fully aroused. The whole circumstance to his mind had a decidedly suspicious look—the steer fallen by the wayside from exhaustion, the direction in which the cattle had been driven. The more he considered the question, the stronger became his conviction that cattle rustlers were at work again.
“By George! This is a discovery, sure enough!” he cried to the empty air. “Now let’s see!”
The Rambler seated himself on the turf, where in a comfortable position he pondered deeply for a considerable time.